


Show Amongst Us Secret Wisdom

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidentally Female, Anxious Masculinity, Awkward Sexual Situations, Body Dysphoria, Conspicuous Absence of Pie, Enochian, First Time, M/M, Menstruation, Other, brotherly shenanigans, shark week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean wakes up female, he and Sam struggle to find a cause.  To find a solution, Dean has to expand his horizons: new ride, new bodily functions, and a whole new awareness of angels.</p><p>--  </p><p>  <i>The nice thing about growing up in hotels is that Dean can pretty much learn to get almost anywhere in his sleep as long as he stays there long enough.  </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>He’s got the path from his room to the bunker’s washroom down cold -- barely needs to open his eyes, really -- and so he only puts two and two together about how weird his body feels when he’s in front of a urinal and discovers his dick is missing. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Amongst Us Secret Wisdom

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to 51stCenturyFox, my enabler and iron beta, for encouraging and assisting with this madness. She knows which bits I stole from her, and Dean feels awkward about every last one of them.

The nice thing about growing up in hotels is that Dean can pretty much learn to get almost anywhere in his sleep as long as he stays there long enough. 

He’s got the path from his room to the bunker’s washroom down cold -- barely needs to open his eyes, really -- and so he only puts two and two together about how weird his body feels when he’s in front of a urinal and discovers his dick is missing. 

That snaps him awake hard enough that it practically gives him whiplash, and he’s shouting “Sammy!” before he’s fully processed that the woman staring back at him in the mirror is _him_.

Same short dark hair, same freckles, same eyes. Same worn-ass t-shirt and pajama pants he went to bed in last night. He squints, leans in. Turns his head both ways. Starts checking for all the faint scars he knows should be there. Everything’s matching up when Sam shows up, gun drawn. 

“Who the hell are you, and how did you get in?”

Dean puts his hands up in surrender. “Dude, it’s me.”

Sam narrows his eyes and checks his aim.

“Sam, it’s _me_. Dean. You know, your brother?” He reaches a hand to his collar, slow and deliberate, and pulls it down to reveal the anti-possession tattoo just below his collarbone. “See?”

“Yeah, half the people who read the _Supernatural_ books have that tattoo.”

Dean rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Okay, then. Quiz me. Check my scars. Whatever. Jesus.”

“Our aliases on the last hunt?”

“Schon and Valory.”

“First three digits of our Social Security numbers?”

“515, and anyone with Google who has this tattoo could probably guess that.”

Sam glares. “Okay, then, what did I have for breakfast yesterday?”

“Hell if I know. I slept in until lunch.”

Sam lowers the gun. “Jesus, Dean. What the hell?”

“Dude, you tell me.” Dean glances at the row of bathroom stalls. “Look, not to make this any weirder, but I’ve seriously got to take a leak.”

Dean has seen women pee, and he’s definitely familiar with female anatomy, but knowing how it all works together is not in his wheelhouse. The peeing itself comes naturally enough, but when he’s done, he’s not sure how much he should really...tidy up? He gets some toilet paper and kind of dabs around, then drops it in the bowl. 

He avoids Sam’s eyes on his way to the sinks and washes his hands. 

“So what are we thinking?” Dean asks as he towels his hands dry. “Some kind of curse? It’s not like we don’t have enemies. Trickster?”

“Can’t be,” Sam says. “Gabriel’s dead.”

Dean shrugs. “Dude, he’s the Trickster.”

“Fair point. But Gabriel doesn’t do things like this unless he’s trying to teach somebody a lesson.”

“So, what, you think I need _lady_ lessons?”

Sam looks down, bites his lip to stifle a laugh.

“Bitch,” Dean grumbles, and pushes past Sam on his way out of the bathroom. 

* * *

His jeans still fit, for which Dean is enormously grateful. Things are a little tighter in the hips and thighs, and looser in the waist, but given the overall change in his proportions he can make it work. The upper deck, on the other hand, is a problem. 

It’s not like he’s rocking a giant rack or anything -- it’s all well into that sort of reasonable handful range -- but t-shirts are clingy in places that would probably be sexy as hell on anybody that isn’t _him_ , and his Carhartts don’t want to button up over his two new best friends. 

His boots, though, are definitely too big. He settles for sock feet for now, but worries about what he’ll do if they need to go out into the field before they solve this. Which they won’t be, he decides when he catches his reflection in the mirror, because he is definitely _not_ going out like this.

This is not what he’d meant all those years ago when he joked about waking up with a nice pair of tits and never leaving the house. 

He finds Sam in the library, already leafing through files. 

“So? What’ve you got so far?”

Sam sighs. “Well, there’s some witchcraft lore about witches changing sex, but most of it is about women being turned into men. There’s some stuff in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, so maybe a god? There’s Lan Caihe in Chinese folk religion, and Quan Yin started out as a Tibetan deity named Chenrezig, but nothing about either of them changing people like this. Ōyamakui in Japanese myth has a variable gender. There’s probably more in the Hindu material too, or maybe Vodun? Honestly, it’s a pretty broad field.”

“Right,” Dean says, and picks up a sheaf of incomprehensible-looking notes. “So we have no idea.”

“Pretty much.”

Dean picks up a pad of paper and a pen. He writes: 

_Woke up_  
 _Showered_  
 _Ate food_  
 _Checked scanners and news_  
 _Auto parts store in Smith Center_  
 _Groceries in Smith Center_  
 _Food again (diner)_  
 _Gun range_  
 _Checked scanners and news_  
 _More food_  
 _TV_  
 _Bed_

He slides the list across to Sam. “Do you remember anything else I did yesterday?”

Sam’s brow furrows. “You pulled me that file box from the archives before you went shooting.”

“Right.” Dean adds _file box_ to the list. “So in addition to any random gods I might have pissed off, there’s anything I could have run into while I was out, or while I was pulling that box.”

“It’s a start.” Sam turns his attention to the papers on the table. “Want me to keep digging?” 

“Yeah. I’ll go check the car for hex bags.”

* * *

There aren’t any hex bags in, on, or around the Impala. He checks her top to bottom, looking for suspicious smudges, slips of paper, charms, tokens, or anything else that might pack some mojo, and comes up empty-handed. 

He checks the parts he picked up at the store and their packaging. 

He checks the receipts. 

That’s one thing ruled out, Dean decides.

Dean goes to the kitchen and does the same thing with the groceries, checking over everything he remembers buying, anything he’s touched, anything he’s eaten that Sam hasn’t. As far as he can tell, though, everything is normal. It’s not the groceries. 

The diner is trickier. He’s got the receipt which is fine, but otherwise it’d have to be something he ate. 

He goes back to the library. Sam’s book pile has doubled. 

“Well, we can rule out hex bags or anything else I carried in with me, but I ate at the diner yesterday.”

Sam’s brow furrows. “So? You’ve been there before. You’d think it’d be safe.” 

“Yeah, but it’s literally the only other outside contact I had yesterday. You need to go check it out.”

“Me?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “Dean, I’m in full research mode.”

“Yeah, and I’ve got curves in all the wrong places. You think I’m going out there like this? Dude, people know me around here. I’ll get my ass kicked.”

“No, you won’t. Nobody’s going to recognize you. I didn’t recognize you.”

“I’m a six-foot lady in Carhartts driving a classic black Impala, Sam!”

Sam leans back in his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. “So don’t take the car. You’ve got the Triumph running again, right?”

Dean glares at the ceiling. “Can we go back to the part where me going out there like this involves _me going out there like this_ , and how that is _not_ gonna happen?”

Sam shrugs and reaches for a book. “Look, we can work this like a case, or you can freak out. Your choice. But I’m not doing everything, and last I checked you don’t read Latin and French. Which, uh, kind of relevant at the moment.” He nods down at the book he’s reading.

Dean squinches his eyes closed and sighs. “Okay, fine. I’ll go. But when I get made, that’s on you.”

Sam waves him off. Dean goes to his room and puts on an extra pair of socks and ties his boots as tight as they can go.

* * *

The diner is closed on Sundays, which means Dean doesn’t need to wait around for them to close. The kitchen lock practically picks itself and he’s in, flashlight in hand. 

He works his way through the building, kitchen to office to front. No hex bags, no weird ingredients, no charms, no creepy inscriptions. He guesses that someone could have brought something in from outside. He checks the schedule, pulls a few employee files, and has a ready list of possible suspects to check out. 

Which would be awesome if he could suit up and play F.B.I. agent instead of having a face that doesn’t match his ID, a body at odds with his tailoring, and a brother too busy reading French to do the footwork.

Speaking of, Dean’s pretty sure his boots are giving him blisters. 

He locks up the diner and gets back on the Triumph. It’s a beautiful bike, classic, but it’s not the most comfortable ride. Mainly in the upper deck. He’s definitely gaining a new respect for busty women.

He’s at a loose end, so he makes a decision to hit up the Orscheln and the Dollar General. He comes out of it with a couple of sports bras and a pair of boots that fits. The boots are actually the trickier find. His feet have changed more than his ribcage, and given that it’s mainly changes in proportion rather than mass going on, he can ballpark a stretchy piece of fabric.

His shirts fit better with his breasts bound, too. Small favors. 

Dean rides back to the bunker in more comfort than he left it, even if the reasons are still kind of disturbing. 

“How was the diner?” Sam asks. He notices the bags and smirks. “I see you went shopping.”

Dean drops his regular boots and the bag with his extra bra in it on a table and straddles a chair. “Look, you want to ride a fifties bike without support, be my guest. What’ve you got so far?”

Sam takes a breath, looks over his notes. “So far? A list of pagan gods, a handful of cursed objects, some witchcraft. We can rule out some but not all that last one, and probably the cursed objects unless you forgot about putting on any strange belts or shawls or --”

“Yeah, not a problem,” Dean says, cutting him off. “Anything you’d find in a diner?”

“Maybe. There’s some stuff in the lore about certain herbs and tinctures that might be something you could pass into food, but given the nature of some of the ingredients, it’d be pretty hard for it to go undetected.”

“Like what?” 

“Valerian, wormwood, devil’s eye. Valerian's pretty pungent. The other two...well, wormwood’s not great for you, but the devil’s eye should definitely have made you sick. If nothing else, you’d have noticed something weird about your food.” Sam shakes his head. “So yeah, that’s where we’re at.”

Dean hands Sam the list from the diner. “Here’s everyone who was working the diner that day. Think you can Fed up and check them out?”

Sam frowns. “I don’t know. We’re kind of in our own backyard.” 

“Yeah, well, our other choice here is for me to go full-on Agent Scully, and I am definitely not prepared for that level of crossdressing.”

“You know, you’re technically already crossdressing.” Sam turns the list over in his hands. “So, uh, there is at least one other person we know who could take care of this.”

Dean winces. “Please don’t tell me you’re calling Cas.”

“If you don’t, yeah, I am.” 

Dean sighs. “Fine.”

* * *

He misses his dick. He understands his dick. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t understand his current situation. 

It’s ironic, because he’s spent a hell of a lot of time between the legs of women, and based on the available data Dean’s confident he’s a decent lay. 

So it’s embarrassing that here he is in bed with exactly the kind of gear he’s used to handling, and he’s got zero idea how to get himself off. Well, okay, he knows how it’s supposed to work. It just...isn’t. He’s damn close -- jaw-clenchingly close -- and has been for the better part of fifteen minutes, but he just can’t tip over the falls. 

“This is bullshit,” he grumbles, and takes his hand out of his boxers. He rolls over, unsatisfied.

* * *

It takes Cas two full days to make the drive from Tallahassee. 

They are not good days. 

On Monday, Dean tries to distract himself by working on the Impala. She’s due for a tune-up anyway, and it’s close to time to service the transmission, so he might as well do it now while he’s stuck at the bunker. There’s no way he’s going out in the field for real where some smartass is going to find out what’s going on and start spreading rumors about the Winchester Sisters.

Well, _sister_. But Sam’s got the hair. It’ll stick, and Dean’s got a low tolerance for that kind of shit.

He’s about halfway through the spark plugs when he notices one of the new ones has a flaw in the ceramic. Not exactly the kind of thing he wants close to his Baby’s pistons.

He grabs the receipt, fires up the Triumph, and heads West toward Smith Center before he realizes that there’s a good chance he’ll end up with the same clerk who sold him the part in the first place. Which, given he’s basically wearing the same thing, has the same hair, and plans to pay with the same card, might get a lot awkward.

Dean hops the median and turns around. He’ll go East and hit the NAPA in Mankato instead.

The clerk’s busy with another customer when Dean arrives, so he browses the aisles for odds and ends. New wipers, a spare headlight bulb. Nothing big. Nothing that he can’t get into the Triumph’s saddlebags. 

“Need some help, honey?”

It takes Dean a second to realize the guy is talking to him. He’s probably late thirties, heavy build like he works in construction and washes it down with a lot of beer. Dean guesses roofing based on the color of his tan. “Uh, no. I’m good.” 

“That your car out there?” The guy tilts his head, and Dean looks out the window. All he sees out there is a white Civic. 

Dean scoffs. “Not even close.” He meanders down the next aisle. The guy follows him. 

“Whoa, you’re the bike?”

“Uh, yeah.” Dean gives the guy a sideways look. The guy’s getting pretty close to the edge of his personal bubble, and it’s starting to piss him off. 

The guy kind of puffs up a little, steps in closer. “I’ve got a Harley back at the house. Mid-80s. Needs some work, but I think you’d like it. You want to come over and check it out?”

Dean steps back and laughs. “Dude, no. Not interested.” He looks up at the counter, sees that the clerk is free, and takes a step toward the front of the store.

“Fucking dyke.”

Dean stops, turns on his heel. “Excuse me?”

The guy just smirks at him like he thinks he’s hot shit. Dean rolls his eyes. He’s doesn’t have time for this, and the last thing he needs is to end up in handcuffs in fucking Mankato with what looks like somebody else’s license and three stolen credit cards.

He buys his damn spark plug and gets back on the road.

* * *

On Tuesday, he wakes up in agony. His thighs are covered in blood. 

“Sam,” he croaks as he stumbles out into the library, still in his pajamas and wrapped in his blanket. “I’m hurt, man. Something’s really fucking wrong.” He holds up a bloody hand. 

And because Sam’s his brother, and it’s not like they haven’t both been covered in blood a few hundred times, Sam starts checking him over for injuries before it twigs for either of them what’s really going on.

Which it does. Pretty much simultaneously. 

Sam jerks away. “Oh man, that’s…ew.”

“Sammy, just kill me. I’m ready. Just let me die.”

“ _You_ want to die?” Sam says, and holds up a hand. “You’re not the guy with his brother’s _period blood_ on him.”

“Oh, fuck you.” He shoves Sam away -- not difficult, considering that Sam flinches back -- and wraps the blanket around himself. “It’s like a goddamn Sam Raimi movie down there.”

“Yeah, thanks for that visual.” 

Dean groans and curls in, pushes his fist against the spot below his navel that feels like it’s ripping itself apart. “You’ve gotta go to the store.” 

“What?”

“Go buy me the...stuff. Pretend it’s first aid.”

Sam laughs, hysterical. “Are you shitting me? Dean, no. I am not going to go to the store and buy my _brother_ tampons. A girlfriend, yes. My brother, hell no. You’re a grown-ass man. Buy your own tampons.”

“I can’t go out like this!” 

“Yes, Dean, you can. Women do all the time. Just man up and take a shower and...actually, you know what? I can’t even have this conversation.” Sam darts off, looking green around the gills.

* * *

Dean buys his own tampons down at the Dollar General. He gets the ones he used to buy for Lisa because they’re familiar, and there are too many other options. The cashier doesn’t even blink.

* * *

Castiel arrives on Wednesday. 

Dean is holed up with the television and a bottle of Jim Beam. He feels gross, he hurts, and he’s having uncomfortably intense emotional reactions to Dr. Sexy reruns.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas.” He scoots over to make room on the couch and waits for Castiel to react to him. 

Castiel sits. He does not react. 

“Nice poker face.”

Dean doesn’t look at him even though he knows Cas is doing that thing where he tilts his head and squints because he doesn’t understand something. 

“Seriously, though, Cas. Say something.”

“I did.”

“You said ‘hello.’ Doesn’t count.”

Cas’ eyes flick down, then back up to Dean’s face. “You expect me to be shocked by the condition of your body.”

“Well, yeah. It’s pretty fucked up.” Dean raises the bottle to his lips, but Cas gently pries it away from him and sets it down on the far end table. “There’s a reason Sam called instead of me. I kinda didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“I am not shocked, Dean.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Way to give a man some confidence in his masculinity, Cas.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

“So fill me in.”

Cas reaches out and turns Dean’s face toward his. “Your body is a body. It is not your soul. It’s a vessel, and a healthy one. You should not be ashamed of it.”

“Says the wavelength of celestial intent,” Dean says and pulls away. “Yeah, okay, maybe it’s not my soul. But it’s where I live. It’s who I am to other people. It matters.” He winces and draws his knees up. “It’s also trying to fucking kill me.”

“Where do you hurt?”

“Where do you think?”

Realization crosses Castiel’s face, but he doesn’t jerk away like Sam had. Instead, he comes closer and places a hand on Dean’s belly, just below the navel. 

“I can’t heal you, Dean. There’s no injury. But I may be able to ease the pain a little.”

Dean feels a burst of warmth, and the knots in his guts start to loosen. He groans, glad for the relief.

Sam clears his throat. Dean jumps. Cas is unperturbed.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No,” Cas answers and removes his hand. “I was just easing Dean’s womb.”

“His...womb.” Sam says, trying desperately not to laugh.

Dean buries his face in his hands. 

* * *

On Thursday, Cas goes out to investigate the list of people from the diner. Sam keeps doing research. 

Dean spends the morning with a Stain Stick trying to salvage his goddamn jeans. 

“Gabriel, if this is more of your bullshit, I’ll make you wish you were dead,” he grumbles and starts the washer.

There’s a store room down here, by the laundry and the washroom, and Dean decides it’s as good a place as any to set up the heavy bag. Google says exercise is good for relieving some of the crap he’s going through, and he’s sick of just sitting around. 

He warms up with some light punches, and ramps up, attacking the bag as hard as he can with fists and knees. The burn of his muscles feels good and familiar, and he focuses on that instead of the shitty feelings and the fear. 

He fights them. He fights the discomfort in his guts and the way his body balances wrong and the chest that’s in his way. He pounds it all to dust against the heavy bag until he’s gasping and his thighs are trembling and he can’t lift his arms. Then he sits down on the cool ceramic tile, leans against the wall, and breathes. 

Google’s right. He does feel better.

When he’s sure he can stand again, he gets up, grabs some clean clothes from his laundry and a towel and puts them on the washroom shelf, then walks naked to the bathroom stall on the end. He’s written his name in black block letters on a sheet of paper and taped it to the door. 

This is his declared space for dealing with the whole bleeding thing. Disposal and installation central. Right now? Disposal. Then a shower. Then he’ll worry about installation again. 

The shower feels good on his skin and his tired muscles. He scrubs every inch of skin that he can reach, though he doesn’t get as dirty in this version of himself as he’s used to. He sweats less. Less grease. He cleans everything except for the spot between his legs until there’s nothing left to do but acknowledge it.

He goes in soapless -- thanks again, Google -- and then he’s clean. He turns off the taps, grabs his towel and his clothes, and dries off on his way back to the stall to get installation over with. He dresses in the stall, and when he comes out, Castiel is waiting at the entrance to the washroom. 

“Coach is going to be pissed if he catches you spying on girls in the locker room, Cas.”

“I wasn’t --” 

“Never mind. What did you find out?”

“The manager, cook, and primary waitress are related. Two of them live together. A third lives in a trailer beyond the city limits. The second waitress is single and has many cats. None of them are witches, Dean, though I suspect the cook is growing marijuana in her garage.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised to hear Cathy-Ann’s got a side-line in illicit herbals, but if it’s not the diner, than what the hell is happening with me?”

“I’m not sure. But I disagree with Sam’s hypothesis. This doesn’t seem to be the work of a Pagan god or other spirit.”

“Could it be Gabriel, then?”

Cas shook his head and glances away. “No. My brother is dead.”

* * *

That night, Dean figures out what he’s been doing wrong. There’s a trick to it, with the fingers, and he needs a lot of patience, but he figures it out. 

By the time he clenches and shakes and makes noises into his pillow his wrist is threatening him with a restraining order and he _does not care_ because this is _fucking amazing_.

* * *

It’s cliche, but Friday morning Dean’s feeling maybe a little less fucked up about the whole trapped-in-a-female-version-of-his-body thing.

He whistles while he makes breakfast, watches a couple of Star Trek reruns, and then goes downstairs to pummel the heavy bag. When he comes back up, Sam and Cas are bickering in the library about the ongoing research effort. 

“Cas, it’s a primary source. Lugensheim _wrote_ this.”

“Who do you think _taught_ Lugensheim?” Cas retorts, and points to a series of sigils on the page. “My brother Samandriel. My sister Carina. Me.”

“Who’s Lugensheim?” Dean asks, and puts his feet up on the table. 

“Bess Lugensheim was a contemporary of Dee’s who mothered a Nephilim. When the angels found out about it --” 

“--we came to resolve the situation.”

“And got captured.”

Cas narrows his eyes at Sam. “We were tricked into a compact. Teach Lugensheim angelic magic in exchange for the child.”

“So what happened to Lugensheim?”

“Lugensheim’s journal ends pretty abruptly, describing a planned magical operation involving the baby,” Sam says, holding up a thin, leather-bound manuscript. “She intended to use the baby’s grace to elevate herself to angelic status so that she could reconnect with the father.”

“Okay, so what happened?” Dean asks.

Cas sighs. “The boy died, she exploded. Lugensheim wasn’t born to be a vessel. Even the small amount of grace her son possessed was too much.”

“Which shouldn’t be a problem,” Sam interrupted, “because Dean and I are both vessels for archangels.”

“But you’re not asking to track an angel, Sam. We have no idea what the root cause of Dean’s transformation is. You have no idea what doors might open, what things you might be inviting in.”

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Dean says, sitting up. “Sam, you think there might be some kind of spell that would lead us to whatever changed me. Cas, you’re saying Sam’s wrong?”

Castiel frowns. “He’s not wrong, exactly. But he isn’t right, either. Lugensheim’s operation was both dangerous and faulty. I can correct for the faults in it, and adjust it to our purposes, but I cannot make it safe.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “Define dangerous.”

Sam looks at his notes. “Permanent damage to your soul or Castiel’s grace, unintentionally making the changes to your body permanent, or one or both of you could, um…”

“Explode?” Dean says.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Sam puts down his notes. 

“Okay,” Dean says. “Awesome. Let’s do this.”

* * *

On Saturday morning, Dean, Sam, and Cas go down to the storage room to remove the heavy bag and make room for their variation on Lugensheim’s tracking spell. Dean’s sorry to see it go. He’s probably at the tail end of Shark Week -- no, seriously, Google is a blessing, because that’s hilarious -- but his body is intent on cramping regardless. 

When Cas notices, he stands close and rests his hand on Dean’s belly. Warmth fills him, and the worst subsides, leaving only a dull ache. He feels soothed all over, and he wants to stay in Castiel’s arms, but pushes away because Sam’s here, and yeah, they are not going to use the _womb_ -word again. 

It takes them hours to draw the sigils in salt and chalk and lamb’s blood. Castiel is very precise, and demands the same precision of both of them. Then again, given that exploding is a possible consequence of getting them wrong, Dean is happy to move slow.

They finish late in the afternoon. Dean is exhausted, and Sam’s looking tired and hungry. 

“We shouldn’t do this tonight,” Sam says, and pops his back. 

Castiel nods. “I have many preparations to make, and I’d like to meditate to be sure I’m prepared for the working. Go rest, both of you.” 

Dean holds Cas’ gaze maybe a little too long. He feels like they’re preparing for battle, waiting to go into the breach.

They might as well be. This time tomorrow, he might be dead.

* * *

Dean takes a shower while Sam’s on his Sunday morning run. Before, it wasn’t a problem if one of them needed the washroom while the other was getting clean. 

_If the ritual fails_ , Dean thinks, _we’ll have to get over it_. 

They’ll have to get over a lot of things. _He’ll_ have to get over a lot of things. 

He uses his marked stall afterward, and is pleased to discover that the installation/disposal routine is over. He feels an awkward sense of pride, like he ought to get a shirt that says “I survived a massacre at the Y!” or something, but that would require a level of acknowledgement that he’s not quite game for, even after a week. 

He dresses in his (thankfully salvageable) jeans and a gray henley, then goes to the kitchen to make breakfast. 

Sam walks in as he’s finishing up bacon and eggs. “That enough for both of us?”

“Yep,” Dean says, switching off the burner. “Get the juice from the fridge?”

“Got it.” 

Sam pours a couple of glasses of juice, puts them down on the wood table. Dean brings over plates of food with forks. 

“Should’ve picked up a pie,” Dean says through a mouthful of eggs. “Maybe if this works, I’ll get some pie.”

“About that,” Sam says, worry creasing his brow. “Dean, you don’t have to do this. We can find other ways --” 

“Weren’t you the one who wanted to try the whole ritual thing?”

“Well, yeah, but --” 

“Sam, I’m not saying I’m real excited about running into an early grave, but I can’t be in this body. Not for real. Not for good. I don’t care if everything about this is fine except that I’m rocking the V, it ain’t me. If we can figure out what’s going on here, if there’s a chance to get back into my real skin, maybe it’s worth it.”

Dean watches as Sam sighs, bows his head for a second, then looks back up. 

“Why does it always have to be life and death, man?”

“Because that’s what we do, Sammy.” 

“Yeah.”

Dean finishes his breakfast faster than he’d like, but drawing things out won’t make this any easier. “Come on. Finish up and let’s go find Cas.”

* * *

“This will hurt.”

Dean nods, and his eyes flick down to the angel blade in Castiel’s hand. They’re in the center of the room, surrounded by sigils. Sam stands at the threshold, as close as Cas will let him, and probably closer than he ought to be.

Cas makes a cut across Dean’s palm, and blood runs up to fill it. It drips to the floor between them as Cas cuts himself with the blade and lets his blood run freely as well, then begins to speak in Enochian: 

_“Kuh-Ni-La Synx-Eir, Zam-Ran Ah Ah Eeh Awm Ah-Na-Na-El!”_

Castiel drops his blade and grips the back of Dean’s head. There are tendrils of glowing light in Castiel’s breath, and they drift into the air between them when he exhales. They hang in midair for a moment as if confused, then zip in through Dean’s parted lips. 

“It burns,” Dean gasps. He can feel his body fighting these shreds of Castiel’s grace as they burrow through him, body and soul, searching. He starts to tumble, but Cas has him, holds him upright while he shakes and screams. 

It might be seconds. It might be hours. 

And then Dean’s eyes open, sightless except for bright blue light. 

“I see it, Cas.”

“Where?” 

“It’s...dark. Boxes. Familiar, but the angle’s all wrong. Covered in a cloth. Wedged in, behind. Hidden. It...fell.” Dean grits his teeth. “Can’t, Cas. Too much.”

 _“Nee-Ee-Soh,_ ” Cas murmurs against Dean’s hair, and Dean feels the light leave his eyes. He blinks, sees the room again. The departure of Cas’ grace is gentler, but it leaves his throat feeling scorched. 

Cas inhales it, and his eyes briefly flare blue-white as he reabsorbs the missing parts of himself, then heals Dean. The cut on Cas’ palm is healing too, but slower. 

“File box, Sammy,” Dean says, and then blacks out.

* * *

Dean comes to in his room. His lamp is on, and Cas is there, watching him from his seat at the foot of the bed. He feels hung over. Epically hung over. 

“How long was I out?”

“Hours.” 

“Did I explode?”

A hint of a smile crosses Castiel’s face. “You did not. Nor did I. And both my grace and your soul are intact.”

“Huh. Yahtzee.” Dean lets his head fall back on his pillow. “Did Sam find it? The thing?”

“Yes. Should I tell him you’re awake?” 

“I can tell him.” Dean sits up with a groan. “Any chance you can take the edge off here, man?”

Castiel brushes his fingers across Dean’s forehead, grazing his hairline. Dean sucks in a breath as the healing courses through him, mending his hurts. 

“Thanks.” 

They find Sam in the library, cross-referencing. On the table, Dean sees the cloth from his vision, and the object on top of it. It’s a snake made in silver and glass, coiled and sinuous. 

The glass is cracked like it’s been dropped.

“Is this it?” Dean asks, turning it over in his hands. 

Sam looks up. “Yep. That’s it.” 

“Okay. So what is it?”

“It,” Sam says, taking the snake out of Dean’s hands and replacing it with an open book, “is a Serpent of Tiresias.”

Dean looks down at the page. There’s a crude drawing of the glass and silver snake. He reads the description aloud: 

“A Serpent of Tiresias causes the change of man to woman and vice versa. Used for the generation of children between inverts, it instills full fertility in the changed partner. It must be broken, as Tiresias struck the serpent with his staff. Its power may be reversed by the wish of the user after the act of love.”

He blinks, scowls at the text. 

“Wait, _act of love_? Does this mean what I think it means?”

“Looks like somebody’s getting lucky,” Sam says with a smirk. 

* * *

He lets his feet dangle from the power station roof and leans back on his hands. The sky is gray. Not gonna-rain-today gray but fuck-it-let’s-just-be-uncomfortable-and-humid gray. 

Dean does not want to _get lucky_. Dean wants to haul out the heavy bag and whale on it for an hour until he can think straight. After that, he’d like to drink until he can’t think at all. 

And then he wants to wake up with his goddamn dick again.

This is bullshit. This whole thing has been bullshit. One miserable, stupid, bullshit thing after another. 

He hears the scrape of shoes and turns around to see Castiel standing behind him. 

“Sam said I might find you here.”

“I’ll bet he’s loving this.”

Castiel sits down next to him. “You should give your brother credit. He’s trying to find a way to reverse the effect without...intercourse.”

“Cas, do me a favor and never mention my brother’s name and the word ‘intercourse’ together in the same sentence again.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

Dean sighs and stares at the sky. It’s flat and heavy and makes him feel crushed. 

He isn’t sure why he reaches over for Cas’ lapels and kisses him, except maybe that he trusts Cas with his life, and right now his life is pretty fucked. He straddles Cas’ lap, aware and not entirely caring that they’re on the edge of the building. 

Cas is safe. Cas is warm beneath him. If it’s got to be anyone, it should be Cas. Not that he’s been thinking about it -- okay, sometimes, maybe, but mostly in an aesthetic kind of way because Cas is a good looking guy -- but if he’s got to...

“Dean,” he murmurs, pulling back. “Dean, stop.”

“What?” 

“I won’t sire a Nephilim on you.”

_“What?”_

“My vessel is male, and fertile. I’m in possession of grace.”

“Damn it, Cas.” Dean climbs off of Castiel’s lap. He wants to point out how human fertility works, but he stayed awake in health class and knows damn well that statistically unlikely doesn’t mean impossible, and who knows what angel jizz is capable of? “I’ve got condoms in my room. Let’s just...ugh. Let’s go get this over with.”

* * *

Dean pointedly does _not_ look at Sam when they cross the library to get to the dormitories. 

In fact, if Sam ever speaks of this, Dean’s pretty sure he’ll cut out all the middle steps and just set his brother on fire.

* * * 

They sit on the edge of Dean’s bed like a pair of awkward kids. Cas has taken off his coat and jacket, and they’re both in socks. 

The condoms are on the dresser. Dean’s still trying not to think about them, because that would make what he’s about to do a little too real. 

_Never thought I’d be freaked out about a no-strings lay._

“Should I --” Cas starts, and Dean shushes him. 

“Just...give me a minute, okay?”

Castiel sits in silence. 

“Okay,” Dean says, finally. “Let’s do this.” 

He straddles Cas again and goes in for the kiss with his eyes closed, but there’s no pretending Cas is a girl. His face is rough with stubble, and he smells...well, clean but masculine. Angels might not do grunge the way humans do, but vessels are still bodies.

It’s definitely weird at first. Not just the guy thing, but the Cas thing, but Cas’s mouth is warm and tastes good, and he’s an unexpectedly good kisser. Dean can feel his body responding to that in ways that are almost but not-quite familiar. 

Heat and craving are pooling where hardness used to be. The feelings low in his gut are building a little sweeter and a little slower, but his body is turning on, and that might take care of his brain enough for him to get through this.

He keeps his eyes closed. Cas’ buttons come undone so easy under his fingers, and he runs his hands over Cas’ shoulders and down his back to ease the fabric away. Cas reciprocates, warm hands caressing up his back, pushing the soft knit of his tee up until Dean pulls it up over his head. 

Dean has to suppress a flinch when Cas hooks a finger under the edge of the sport bra, but he must go rigid because Cas stops. 

“Should I not touch you there?” he asks, and Dean wants to break right then and there, because...god, it occurs to Castiel to _ask_. 

“Leave it for now. M-maybe later? I don’t know. It’s…” He doesn’t know the word for what it is. Wrong? Like it’s too tangible a reminder that he’s in a body that isn’t quite his? “Maybe above them? Like, below my collarbone?” 

Cas scoots the shoulder strap over and kisses Dean on that spot. On his chest. The part that feels almost right. 

“Okay,” Dean huffs out. “Yeah, that spot’s good. Touch me there all you want. Just not too low. 

“Okay.” 

Cas rolls them onto the bed, Dean on his back, Cas pressed up against him. Dean’s eyes are still closed, so the light touches on his belly are a surprise, but a good one. Cas is just petting him, really, gentle hands on his body like he’ll spook again.

Dean presses closer, turns onto his side so they’re front-to-front, skin to skin from the waist up. Cas’ hand is on his back now, and it feels good. Dean rests his hand on Cas’s hip, lets his fingers tangle in his belt loop. 

He can feel Cas’ semi start to get harder against him, and for just a second Dean wants to pull away again because this is an increasingly real thing that is increasingly happening and that is increasingly weird, and yeah, okay, he’s definitely not thinking clearly. 

Cas’ hands go still again. “Dean?” 

“Yeah,” he says, and shakes his head to clear it. “Sorry. This is...Cas, I…”

“It’s okay. We can stop.”

“No, I know. It’s just…” Dean rolls onto his back again and opens his eyes to glare at the ceiling. “Cas, I shouldn’t be _enjoying_ this. You’re a friend, and you’re taking one for the team, and...”

And what? He’s got no idea. 

“Dean.” 

He looks at Cas. It’s difficult. He feels entirely too naked for this. 

“This body is your body. It frightens you because you don’t see yourself in it. It hurts like a prison.”

Dean swallows, nods.

“Have I ever told you about my true form?”

Dean thinks about it. “Yeah, you’re like the Chrysler Building, right?” 

Cas smiles. “Only in stature. This human body is similar in form to how some prophets may see me, but this vessel isn’t _me_. My true self...things translate very strangely. I would show you, but...”

“Yeah, thanks but no.” Dean shakes his head. “I value my eyes.” 

“As well you should. They are good eyes.”

Dean lets out a little chuckle at that.

“So...what do you look like?”

Cas sits up, tilts his head. “I...do not look like anything. Not at my purest and highest. But as I descend through the spheres, do I take form to interact with the world around me. Sometimes that form is like a burning serpent. Sometimes I have many heads, or eyes, or the heads of animals. My favorite is the one in which I have six wings: two with which to shield my eyes in the presence of my Father, two to hide my nakedness, and two that I use to fly. Here, like this, I manifest inside a vessel.”

“So, when I’m doing this,” Dean runs a finger down Castiel’s thigh. “Where am I touching you?”

Cas frowns, like he’s trying to solve a difficult problem. “It...doesn’t translate? You’re touching my vessel, which anchors my being. My vessel feels sensations, and I am aware of them and experience them on the vessel’s terms.” 

Dean frowns. “That makes it sound like you’re getting it all by radio.”

Cas shakes his head. “No more than your brain does from your tongue. Your tongue tastes, you taste. Consider this body a sensory organ, and understand me as something only just learning how it works.” 

“And if you change vessels?”

“The organ changes.”

Dean shakes his head. “That’s a lot to take in.” 

“It must be, yes. But in answer to your question, when you touch me, you touch me exactly there. I do feel, and taste, and smell, and hear, and see when I’m on Earth. Elsewhere, I do other things, some of which I don’t know if I could explain.”

“Why are you telling me this, Cas?”

“Because I want you to understand that this is not a burden for me, and because I want to lessen yours.” 

Dean blinks, and for a minute he doesn’t know quite where to look, because if he looks at Cas the ache in his chest might do something stupid. 

Then again, stupid’s kind of par for the course, right? 

Dean takes Cas by the wrist and pulls him back close. He feels curiously light, like the knowledge that nobody here is in his right body makes this a thing he can choose. That it can be weird and terrible and still be good. That no matter if it hurts, or if he hates it, that’s not important because Cas _understands_. Hell, he understands more than Dean ever will about wrong bodies and alien feelings. 

He helps Cas pull the sport bra over his head, then encourages him to kiss, to touch. He will do this once, just to know. 

It’s not overwhelming. It’s just lips and hands on skin. The nipples are a little more sensitive, but the rest of it is...it’s okay. Not really mind-blowing. But it’s beautiful to watch, Cas touching a body and taking pleasure in it. 

“Can I go lower?” 

Dean nods, and Cas moves down his body to nuzzle and kiss Dean’s smooth stomach. That he likes a lot. Scratch of stubble, warm breath, soft lips? _Yes_. 

Cas puts a hand between Dean’s legs and scratches his thumb down the seam of his jeans, and that is a revelation because it’s so good. Sore wrist good and promising more. 

He tries to press against Cas’ hand, but it’s like trying to chase a sensation just out of reach. “Damn it, Cas,” he groans. “Stop teasing me.”

“I like watching you like this very much,” Cas says, a little dreamy. “The squirming is...very pleasurable.”

“You’re such a douche.” Dean latches his fingers in Cas’ belt and undoes it, and Cas’ fly. Cas groans at the feel of Dean’s hand and rocks into his grip. 

“You shouldn’t,” Cas warns. “I have to last. You don’t.” 

“What, you think I won’t keep you in here all day?” Dean says, and gives Cas a squeeze before pulling his hand away. “But hey, you want to get me off a few times instead, I’m game.” 

Cas tugs at Dean’s fly, undoing the top button, then pulls his jeans down over his hips and off his legs. His socks go with them. He’s naked -- really naked -- and he wants to freeze, but he also doesn’t want to stop. 

“Dean?” 

“Yeah?”

“Your vessel is beautiful.”

Dean swallows, looks down. Really looks. And smiles. “Yeah. I guess she is.” 

“May I touch you through your vessel?”

“Please.”

Castiel begins the line of kisses just past Dean’s knee. Each kiss just intensifies how much Dean wants to be touched in that spot that wants to be his dick but isn’t quite, until he’s digging his fingers into the blanket. 

He practically comes right then and there when Castiel’s tongue slips against it, shyly at first, then firmer. Cas sucks at him with his mouth, then laps again.

“Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ ,” Dean says, lifting his hips. “ _Cas_.”

“Is it good, Dean?” Cas murmurs against his thigh. 

“Good? Cas, if you stop, I will fucking _end_ you.”

Castiel’s laugh is low and hot against Dean’s skin, and then he’s kissing Dean’s cunt like his life depends on it. 

When Cas adds fingers, Dean moans so loud he’s pretty sure the whole county hears, and desperately doesn’t give a shit because he’s coming on Cas’ fingers, clenching and shaking and _holy shit_ this is way better than sore wrist night. This is way better than a _lot_ of things. 

And the best part is that he can keep going. Like, he’s pretty high, but he can go higher. Or again. He can feel that, down there, like his body will just go and go if he wants it to. 

“Cas, condom,” he says, groping for the nightstand. “Want it. Want you.” 

Dean is still firmly at cruising altitude when they get the wrapper figured out. He guides Cas with his hand, and they kiss as he pushes in because it’s just right. They’re in this together and it’s perfect and then Dean wraps his legs around Cas’ hips because he’s never felt full like this and can’t quit shaking. 

“Is this okay?”

Dean nods. He’s out of words. He thinks of all the times he’s done this, the girls he’s done slow, the ones he’s ridden hard, and all he can think is that maybe he wasn’t getting the best side of that equation. 

“Do you want to move with me?” Cas asks, and Dean nods, wraps his arms around Cas’ shoulders. 

They fuck slow at first, basking in the sensation of it, building momentum according to Dean’s need until Cas is laboring above him, eyelids fluttering, utterly lost in the motion of hard, desperate thrusts. Dean loves this, watching all of Castiel’s reserve come away, shed like a snake’s skin. 

“Your vessel is beautiful,” Dean gasps as he feels a familiar catch in the rhythm that says here it is for Cas, that moment where he’s over the falls and and giving in to it. 

Cas digs his fingers into Dean’s shoulders, hard enough to bruise, and murmurs Dean’s name over and over, practically weeping it as he finishes, then eases down onto the bed beside him. 

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, awed, staring at Cas like he’s seeing him for the first time. It’s endorphins, he knows, but god _damn_. “That was...we just did that.” 

Cas just nods, still a little dazed.

“Seriously, Cas. Why have we not been fucking?”

“I do not know.” 

“Yeah, me neither. Damn.” Dean runs his hands through his hair. “So. What happens now? I get to choose?” 

“Yes.”

“How?” 

“I have no idea.” 

Dean starts to say something useless and a little pointed, like “Oh, great,” but instead he finds himself kind of floating above himself, looking at his body. It’s flushed and fucked and not a bad body. He doesn’t have to change it back if he doesn’t want to. 

Except he does want to. He wants his voice back, and his flat chest, and his rough face. He wants his broad shoulders back, and his bigger, rougher hands. He wants to wear his own boots, not worry about bras. And yeah, he really does miss his dick, nice as it is to try something different. 

“This is me choosing,” he says, and he can feel something unspool inside of him, like a spell letting go. And then he falls.

* * *

“Dean?”

“Mmm?”

“You might want to open your eyes.”

Dean sits up and blinks. He’s naked, and his and Castiel’s clothes are literally everywhere. Cas is naked next to him, looking at him like he’s grown a second head. 

Well. Technically…

“Oh, thank god,” Dean says, cupping himself briefly, then touching his chest. He falls back on the bed, still kind of deliriously fucked-out, but also just...good. Like everything is right in the world. “It worked.” 

“It did.” Cas sits up, reaches over the edge of the bed for his clothes. 

Dean grabs his wrist. “Whoa, where are you going?”

“I thought, given that the effects of the Serpent were resolved --”

Dean scoffs. “Damn, Cas. Make me feel loved why don’t you.”

Cas tilts his head. “You...want me to stay?”

“Uh, _yeah_. Cas, a man gets a lay like that and...well, okay, strictly speaking that’s probably pretty unlikely, but I’m not turning you out of my bed anytime soon. You’ve got privileges.” 

“Privileges?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “C’mere.” 

He kisses Cas, soft on the mouth. It’s good, and a little different, and he never wants to stop.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're curious about the Enochian:  
> \- CNILA CINXIR ZAMRAN, A-AI-OM ANANAEL (Blood mingles, show amongst us secret wisdom)  
> \- NIISO (Come away)
> 
> [John Dee](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Dee) was real. Bess Lugensheim was not. 
> 
> The Serpent of Tiresias is a reference to [Tiresias](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiresias), a blind seer in Classical Greek (and later) literature who had been cursed first to become female, and then cursed back to male when he discovered that sex was better for women.
> 
> Dean's bike, which is non-canonically from the MoL motor pool: [Triumph TR5 Trophy.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triumph_TR5_Trophy)


End file.
